One Friday last month, I sat at a round table with seven black and Latino teens. As a member of the local news media, I had been invited to chat with them about violence and the media.
The conversation sputtered and fizzled, I felt a huge disconnect; they didn’t seem to know what they wanted from me. So I started asking questions, hoping to spark some good discussion.
One girl told me about a shooting at her high school. We talked a bit about racial prejudice. And then I asked them about their preconceived notions about Jews. Who do they imagine when they hear “Jew?” Silence.
So I ventured, “Do you think of rich, white people?” and heads began nodding.
That’s no surprise, of course. Jewish wealth and power is perhaps our most enduring stereotype. But I wondered, how would American Jewish teens answer that same question? What about American Jewish adults?
About being white: North American Jews hail primarily from Eastern Europe, so we have developed the mistaken impression that Jews are white. Look deeper — think about Sephardic Jews, Ethiopian Jews, Abayudaya Jews, Middle Eastern Jews and the range of converts.
The question of money is trickier. Though Jews make up only about 2 percent of the American population, a disproportionate number of people on Forbes Magazine’s list of the 400 wealthiest Americans are Jewish.
But our community includes plenty of non-wealthy Jews too, some of whom are in desperate need. Jewish Family Services is experiencing increased requests for help.
As reported by Leon Cohen in the Nov. 21 Chronicle, Congregation Beth Jehudah usually gives between $50,000 to $100,000 to community members in financial need. Rabbi Benzion Twerski estimates that 7 to 10 percent of that community is struggling.
Milwaukee now has two facilities for low-income elderly Jews. One more is in the works.
Even in my little Jewish world — which includes a synagogue, a private Jewish day school and a Jewish communal workplace — the signs of an underrepresented lower- to middle-class are loud and clear.
Each time The Chronicle runs a story about the high cost of Jewish life, we hear from community members who are relieved that someone is finally talking about their family’s struggles.
American Jewish life is expensive, particularly for families with children. There’s synagogue membership; Jewish education (which for some means day school and for others synagogue supplementary school); Jewish camps; community center membership; kosher food; trips to Israel; and b’nai mitzvah events.
And there is the expectation that we will give what we can — to fulfill the mitzvah of tzedakah, to care for other Jews, to care for other people in need and to help heal the planet. Our checkbooks are in high demand.
Then there are the incidentals: Jewish neighborhoods — those with other Jews and proximity to synagogues and schools — are relatively expensive. And if you live in the North Shore and are surrounded by relatively affluent neighbors, your children will come to expect a lifestyle commensurate with their friends and classmates.
That external pressure is real — and difficult to navigate. I’ll never forget when my daughter’s kindergarten classmate came over to play about six years ago. He looked around the house and observed, with complete sincerity and curiosity, “Your house is so … small.” And then comparing our house to another Israeli family’s, he asked, “Do all Israelis have small houses?”
(To clarify, my house would be considered perfectly lovely by most Milwaukeeans. But it is certainly more modest than many of my children’s classmates’ homes. I benevolently explained that our house is the perfect size for us.)
It’s not just me. A friend who owns a great old house in Milwaukee and attends synagogue in the suburbs told me that she feels poor only when she comes to synagogue.
Somehow in spite of the evidence of lower- and middle-class Jews, of Jews with mental illness and addiction, we continue to believe our own myths — that we’re all affluent, well educated and socially successful.
We have many reasons to be thankful for those in our community who are financially stable and philanthropic. To them we owe gratitude for our buildings, many of which were renovated thanks to the Community Capital Campaign, led by the Milwaukee Jewish Federation, which raised more than $41 million.
And we must be grateful for the continuing gifts that enrich our community’s programs, many through the federation’s Annual Campaign.
Generosity defines many of our community members. For that, I am continually astounded and utterly grateful.
But I am also concerned about those who feel invisible in our community. It may be too much to wish that participating in community events would result in breaking down economic and social lines of demarcation. But, as the global economic downturn forces many of us to rethink expenses and may throw some of us into crisis, there may be one silver lining:
Perhaps it will shed light on the Jews among us who are struggling and compel us to make our community a more welcoming place to all.
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